


Glass Houses (Rimini Reunion)

by Kerillian



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Art Gallery AU, Beach Holidays, F/F, Mercy is a lonely thornback and can't deal, Reunions, Secrets, background brig/rein, forever unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24768127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerillian/pseuds/Kerillian
Summary: Dr. Ziegler is an accomplished medical professional and philanthropist, deserving of the time she has taken off to holiday in Italy for Torbjörn and Ingrid’s anniversary. All is well, mostly, until disaster finds her in a modern art gallery.
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 1
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up in case u missed the tags, this fic is EVENTUALLY gonna feature a Problematic Background Ship ((brigitte/reinhardt)). It won't be a focal point like the Moicy, but it will be heavily involved in the plot. If you have a problem with that then I suggest you refrain from reading and don't purposefully expose yourself to something that will upset you. Any angry or upset comments will be immediately deleted. TY!!
> 
> OTHERWISE
> 
> pls enjoy and don't mind my stupidly long upload times cause im only just getting back into writing fanfiction again :')

Angela had insisted to the Lindholms that her accommodation and travel expenses not be covered by them, but she had actually heard Torbjörn’s claw slam on a table over the phone as he told her ‘NO’. He had made up his mind about paying for her stay, and she had no say in it. If she was going to be there to watch them renew their vows on their 30th anniversary, he wanted to make sure she lived like a queen for the time she was there.

The preferential treatment was a little jarring to her after making do with upscale tents for so long. But by the end of her journey to Rimini, she was letting the discomfort wash off her under the stream of a beautiful, steaming hot shower. 

Angela had a free meal on the way up to her room, a fluffy towel waiting for her on the rack, and a huge bed she could sleep on diagonally, sideways, upside down - any way she wanted. It was almost more than she could take in - hot running water _and_ a comfy bed? This was peak luxury.

Maybe while she was here, she could take the time to look hot, get a cute dress… go and hit some bars?

Maybe she’d even get someone else to come and take up some space on that massive bed of hers. 

That is, if she could bring herself to get waxed, find a dress that showed off her legs but didn’t show off the cellulite on her thighs, or stay up past 9pm.

Angela snorted to herself, now thoroughly washed and dried, shovelling gelato into her mouth as she nestled on the couch with a holo-pad. She perused a travel guide and a list of activities for individuals of dampened sexual prowess such as herself, and she was not disappointed by what Rimini had to offer.

Maybe she might not find a fling, but she could at least have fun and enjoy the time with her long-time friends, and the extravagant hotel suite she’s inhabiting out of the Lindholm family’s deep pockets for the next two weeks.

  


* * *

  


Waking up to a splendid view of the seaside from her balcony was even better than falling asleep in the plush blankets on her bed. 

Ingrid had messaged her earlier with the information that their youngest was arriving with her godfather today. She had to hurry and throw her clothes on so she could run down and see them; it’s been years since she’d seen the two of them. Brigitte was still a teen last time she’d laid eyes on her. Seeing Reinhardt would be nice too, of course, but the time that passed wouldn’t have changed him like it changed Brigitte.

The elevator doors opened, and she could already hear Torbjörn’s distinct yell-talking from the common lounge. 

“More grandkids? Hah! Reinhardt’s going to run out of leg space this Christmas!”

“Try me! The smaller ones can sit on my arms!”

They’re here already. She was just in time.

She had a spring in her step now, and met the gaze of three generations of Lindholm as she rounded the corner into the lounge. 

“Angela!” She heard out of view, and saw Brigitte’s open arms and beaming smile as she turned to greet her.

“Brig-- ah!” She gasped. The girl had closed their distance, picked her up and twirled her twice in the air before putting her down. “Oh, my.”

She was dizzy, and she held onto Brigitte’s shoulders to steady herself. The family was laughing at her, but she laughed too.

Gaining her bearings once again, she took a step back to look at Torbjörn’s youngest. 

“My goodness, Brigitte. You’ve gotten so big! And strong!” 

It was corny, but Angela wasn’t kidding. Baby Lindholm was freakishly strong. Also very far from ‘baby’, now.

Brigitte wasn’t exactly small when she’d last seen her, she was lean and athletic, sporting only vaguely visible muscle mass. She was _buff_ now. She was huge, she even had bear-fat that padded out her muscles.

“When did you manage that?” Angela asked her.

Brigitte rubbed a hand over the back of her neck, no doubt sheepish from the attention Angela gave her. 

“Well, years on the road with Reinhardt ought to do it. The lifestyle changed me.”

Right. Angela remembered when she heard Brigitte had opted to be his ‘squire’, and she’d thought it was completely unnecessary at best, life threatening at worst. Angela hadn’t approved, but she’d had ample time to get over it.

“Just fixing his armor? Surely there’s no room for a gym in that truck, too.” She joked.

Brigitte looked away, her smile dimming just a little. “Papa never told you.”

“Told me what?”

Brigitte chuckled nervously.

“I’m not just fixing his armor anymore. I’m fighting alongside him, too.” 

Angela’s aunt-instinct revved up, her unappointed godmother sensibilities woke from dormancy. Looking from her to Reinhardt, she frowned. The family looked busy chattering amongst themselves, too busy to notice how their conversation unfolded.

“Fighting how? And with what, a gun?” She half-whispered at Brigitte, laying a hand on her shoulder. How could Reinhardt make her do this? How could he stand to put his goddaughter’s life in danger? More importantly, how could Torbjorn allow any of it in the first place?

“Hey, hey-- it’s okay!” Brigitte insisted. “Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad! I’m worried!” Angela asserted.

“Angela, you’re worried, but you’re definitely mad. You have an angry vein.”

“Just… listen to what I have to say.” Brigitte implored, not wanting to make a scene and attract attention.

Angela folded her arms and nodded to her, leaning in with her listening ear.

Brigitte noticed her father looking over to them, but he pursed his mouth and looked away as soon as their eyes met. Typical papa.

“Do you remember hearing about when Reinhardt was injured on the road? We came back to my parents’ place for a while so he could rest for a few weeks,” She explained.

That was a busy time in Angela’s life, and she only vaguely recalls it.

“While we were there, I realised I didn’t want to just help him with his armor. He was already teaching me to defend myself, but it didn’t feel right for me to just sit around and wait for him to get hurt again.”

“But that’s not your job, Brigitte.” Angela told her, because it wasn’t. Reinhardt had no right to drag her along like this just to slave over his armor, he certainly had no right to demand that she risk her life for him, too.

“But… it actually is.” Brigitte said. Angela had half a mind to keep arguing, because she just couldn’t fathom being wrong about this. But she sat quietly, letting Brigitte say her piece.

“I know it doesn’t have to be, but I wanted it to be, so now it is.” She told her. “Besides… look at me.”

Brigitte slapped a hand on one of her thick biceps, then on a meaty thigh for emphasis.

“I’ve never looked better. Right?”

Not catching herself for a moment, and as a result of some large amounts of frustration very long overdue for resolution, Angela did feel her cheeks flush. She forgot where she was, staring at those bulging muscles.

Brigitte noticed. Surprise coloured her, a bemused little grin soon followed.

“Wow. You need to get laid.” She remarked.

Angela covered her face with a hand and turned away while Brigitte snorted next to her. 

“Never knew I was your type, Ziegler.” Brigitte joked between suppressed little giggles.

“Oh, get over yourself. First Reinhardt gives you his muscles, then he gives you his ego. You’re very attractive now, Brigitte, I’ll give you that.” She admitted. 

Brigitte smiled and raised an eyebrow.

“But?” She added for Angela.

“... But I have jetlag, and I’ve been alone for a long time now. Give me a break.”

Brigitte’s face lit up. “Are you gonna go clubbing while you’re here? Are you gonna get _nasty_?” She said excitedly.

“Me? Clubbing? Getting ‘nasty’?” Angela scoffed.

“You’re still hotter than virtually every other fourty year old woman I’ve met. Your chances of picking up are great. Why not?”

Angela spluttered. “That’s none of your business.”

Brigitte smirked knowingly and leaned back against the wall they were standing next to.

“It’s okay. I know it’s because you’re a prude.” 

“I beg your pardon—“ Angela started indignantly, but Brigitte’s laughter was infectious. It was hard to stay defensive when she talked to such a good-natured girl, especially when her reactions to everything Brigitte said to her only mounted evidence of her prudishness against her.

“Anyway… I really am alright, Angela. This is what I want.”

Angela had almost forgotten the conversation they were having about Brigitte’s wellbeing. 

It only served to prove how right Brigitte was about how she needed to get laid. How embarrassing.

“And by the way, I fight with a flail and a shield, in a suit of armor. No guns, save for turrets.”

She sighed.

“Well, if you’re healthy and happy, there’s not much to be done for it.” Angela conceded. The knowledge that she wielded a flail and a shield in armor helped somewhat.

“And I am.” Brigitte told her. “I’m the happiest and healthiest I’ve _ever_ been. Trust me.”

Angela guessed she would have to.

“Now come on, let's join in before everyone figures out you were just chewing me out.”

Eyeing Reinhardt and the long beard he sported for a moment while she let Brigitte drag her along, she let her reservations go as she was welcomed into the lounge.

  


* * *

  


The day had proven to be absolutely exhausting in the end. The Lindholms were an immense family, and big eaters too. They packed into two restaurants, one after the other, and the ones with young children had left only when the sun began to set. 

Ingrid opted to go back to their hotel early too, and whoever was left joined Torbjorn on a bar crawl, Brigitte and Reinhardt included. Torbjorn and Brigitte had pulled on Angela’s arm to come, but she would have absolutely no part in that. Angela much preferred the company of the hot bath she had sunk into, bolstered in luxury by the addition of her favourite essential oils.

She would stick out like a sore thumb at a bar crawl.

She imagined Reinhardt would stick out too, but in a positive way, what with how youthful energy still poured from him. He was a novelty in clubs, she’d heard. Turned heads wherever he went.

It made sense. Few people would ever have seen someone like him before.

Sometimes she wished she could have run a few more tests on Reinhardt back when Overwatch was still active, so she could figure out exactly what he was injected with when he was young. 

Angela knew ‘Crusader children’ were a very clandestine experiment, the department responsible for it having been liquidated long ago, and Reinhardt still remained cagey about it decades on. He didn’t like being a guinea pig, it heavily impacted his mental health to be treated as such, and she had no choice but to accept that. She had to be content never knowing the rest, only to observe his unique ageing process from afar.

More importantly, Angela had to stop thinking like _Dr. Ziegler_ , and make sure she wouldn’t again for the next two weeks.

That brought her to a more pressing issue - her unchecked thirst for a fuck.

Yes. That was embarrassing, inadvertently revealing to Brigitte that she was a horny old thornback and not the benevolent angel that she liked to outwardly project to people.

Her friend’s daughter was hot. It made her tingle a little bit to think about Brigitte’s beautiful, rugged physique. She must have worked hard to get it. 

Nevertheless, Angela comfortably maintained that she had no actual desire for Brigitte, although she accepted that she was lonely and gay enough to get flustered looking at her. It was a natural physiological reaction, especially since Brigitte had abruptly gone from being Torbjorn’s teenage daughter in her mind to an attractive grown woman.

It made her realise, however, that searching for a fling may have been in her best interest while she had the chance. It wouldn't be practical or appropriate to let herself stay so pent up that she would just gawp at the nearest woman who took her fancy.

  


* * *

  


Come morning, Angela had resolved to at least find a quiet bar she liked that evening. She could work up from there. There were plenty of lesbian-centred locations, but it made her nervous. Funny enough, she’d never been to a gay-bar before - she’d barely even been to regular bars to begin with. She was just too busy.

As it turned out, figuring out how to bring the dead back to life in combat was the kind of thing that packed your schedule up for the rest of your life.

And Overwatch… well.

She tried not to think about how much time she wasted there on these kinds of pursuits.

But she wouldn’t let that bring her down. She’d go clubbing! 

...Eventually.

Maybe she would have to take Brigitte up on that offer for a wingman, and maybe just a buddy in general. Alone and white girl wasted would be an egregiously bad look on her at her age.

Her phone pinged from the coffee table in the lounge. It was Brigitte.

‘Come spend time with me an the big guy today! Waiting 15min for you in the lobby.’

Angela stood still, staring at her phone for a moment. She was still kind of upset with Reinhardt about Brigitte. 

But really, when hasn’t she been upset with him about something? He’s used to it. It might not be so awkward if she doesn’t catch her own tone once or twice while talking to him.

Besides, she had a few things to discuss with Brigitte about picking up.

Her mind made up, she was ready and down in ten minutes.

Reinhardt looked surprised to see her when she came out of the elevator, but greeted her like usual.

“Good morning! Ravishing as ever, dear Angela.”

Brigitte piped up behind him. “Hey! Ready to go?”

She smiled and nodded at them.

To begin with, they were a bit directionless as they walked out the door. The two muscleheads beside her chattered like youngsters - she’d never seen a pair with such a huge gap in age get along so well. Reinhardt’s dad jokes were still a force to be reckoned with, however. Even Brigitte couldn’t seem to abide them for very long.

Angela pondered while they babbled on, scanning the colourful array of shopfronts.

There was so much to do here. They could visit a restaurant or a cafe for breakfast, walk along the beach, visit some ancient ruins nearby...

And just then, her eyes landed on a sleek, tall establishment, squeezed between other buildings but equipped with large glass windows. There was an elegant geometrically patterned tint on the windows, subtle enough that you could only catch it when the sunlight was cast on it just right. From the footpath outside, she could see an alluring sculpture. It was lit from underneath with pale yellow LEDs, casting gilded light and soft, curving shadows onto its form.

Angela was sold. She grabbed Brigitte’s arm, who grabbed Reinhardt’s, startling him still, and she would have pulled them along if they didn’t weigh as much as a wild bison between them.

“Huh?” Brigitte grunted. “What’s up?”

“Art gallery! Let’s go!” Angela chimed, pulling and tugging on her arm. The place was calling for her, screaming her name in the wind.

“Art gallery...” Brigitte repeated. She was sounding unsure, but Reinhardt automatically started moving again once he caught up with what was going on, and the momentum forced her to move in that direction anyway.

Angela paid entry for all three of them, effectively robbing the other two of any opportunity to protest. 

Just stepping in, she felt invigorated. The gallery had a beautiful set of modern works, all placed and juxtaposed perfectly to compliment one another. 

She drank it all in, in total awe, but was distracted by Brigitte aimlessly slogging past her. 

Reinhardt was busy trying to make himself as small and unobtrusive as physically possible.

He was right to be afraid. Every ex-Overwatch operative remembered Ana Amari’s infamous first-hand account of the time Lieutenant Wilhelm tripped over his own feet in a glassware shop. He still hadn’t lived it down, but at least it made him hyper-aware of the space he took up in a room full of expensive artworks.

“Oh! Look, a cat!” Brigitte exclaimed, and ran over to have a closer look. Security personnel looked nervous, but she at least possessed more natural grace than Reinhardt did.

Angela walked along to the painting with Reinhardt, and indeed, it was a cat. It was cute, but its expression was also a bit unhinged. The focus was on the beauty of its form, conveyed with just a few key sweeping lines and an intriguing placement of colour..

She was busy appreciating it, then noticed that Brigitte had already found another painting that caught her interest.

“Hah, look. She’s naked.”

Brigitte pointed at a nude portrait of a woman whose head was out of shot, making whoever it was unidentifiable.

It always shocked Angela to know that Brigitte was given so little time to appreciate art growing up as a child of the crisis, the daughter of a renowned engineer. Though hers was a brilliant mind, Angela was about to make a remark on her level of maturity. Reinhardt had already stepped in, however.

“It’s art, Gitte, you little troglodyte.”

Brigitte turned to him with her brows shot up high. “At least I know how not to break anything that costs more than fifty euros.”

Reinhardt chuckled, “Well, I’ve never broken--...” and he stopped after. Had he really struggled to recall anything he hasn’t ruined just by being near it? _Anything_ at all?

Angela watched Brigitte blink at him, and being privy to this, she couldn’t tell if they were bonded in friendship or if they were just Stuttgart’s travelling circus.

“I’m going upstairs,” She announced, tiring of watching their impromptu take on life in the Horizon Lunar Colony.

“If any of you need me, call me. You don’t have to stay here, but don’t go too far.”

“Oh, thank god.” Reinhardt sighed.

“Who’s the troglodyte now?” Brigitte asked him, laughing all the while, but it grew quiet the further Angela turned heel and walked from them.

Maybe they weren’t ready for art. The beach might have been better, but they could at least have tried to enjoy it. Brigitte gave her best effort, she supposed.

She ascended a flight of stairs to the upper floor, and suddenly, she was infinitely glad to have been rid of them. 

The works up here were phenomenal. Among them all, an abstract work that floated untethered in the room pulled her closer.

It was breathtaking. The piece explored contrast in such a way that the forms were neither here, nor there, but placed so perfectly that the viewer could imagine them to be any amount of objects at once. Zings of colour drew her eye to a focal point, a figure that could have been a woman curled up, turbulence flowing from her in the form of rich, impasto textures. She gazed on and on for what could have been minutes, hours - it was as beautifully uncertain as the work she beheld. 

Even though she floated on bliss and wonderment, nearing the stairs to the next floor up, the rest of the gallery could only match her attachment to that painting. For a connoisseur, there was no ‘best work’ in the gallery, but that painting drew her in and burned itself into her mind like no other had.

The third floor had less art and more furniture, and an empty, shuttered bar she assumed was for night-time cocktail parties.

Opting to give herself a break from all these wonderful works to refresh herself, she made her way to the doors leading out to a balcony. Outside, there was no view of the beach, but the sea breeze could still be felt up there, and the humble rooftops cut a plain silhouette that she could run her eyes along for a while. 

The wind picked up, and she held her sun-hat in place with a small gasp. It wouldn’t do to let it fly off up here - she’d never find it.

Angela was minding her business, catching the rays and the crisp breeze when the mood of her day snapped to a different direction.

“Mercy?” A velvet voice called to her. It lulled her for a moment before she froze, because there were only two people she currently knew of in Rimini who would identify her by her code-name, and neither of them sounded like that.

Not only that, but the voice itself flooded her with memories she had never once recalled in so many years.

She turned to where she could hear the voice coming from, a short ways down the balcony where a shade cloth hung over it.

Though the sunlight was filtered, it was still strong enough to light up a crop of flame-red hair atop the head of a tall, slender woman, leaning against the balcony with a flute of champagne in hand.

Oh, heavens no.

_Her._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, new title :) "Rimini Reunion" was always a working title, and now I've found something a little better to call it.

“Mercy? Dr. Ziegler?”

That voice made Angela’s stomach drop.

Agent O’Deorain. 

Moira.

She donned a deep indigo suit, tailored so perfectly that it was almost like a wearable work from the gallery.

Suddenly, the pale yellow spaghetti strap blouson dress Angela threw on at the hotel felt frumpy, not elegantly casual as she had viewed it in the mirror. Her white flats felt like they were gathering dirt all by themselves the more she sat gawping, despite the balcony floor being immaculately clean. She’d considered mascara, but forewent it, and now she wished she’d invested time into rocking razor-sharp wings and some concealer for the rosacea that was no doubt starting to splotch around her nose. 

Angela was left feeling like a ruddy naked mole rat wearing a pee-stained bed sheet in that damned woman’s presence, it was shockingly unfair.

Flustered and furious at the same time, it pissed Angela off even more to find that Moira had made no effort to look any less smug over the years.

“I don’t believe it,” She said. “After all these years, we meet again here in Rimini.”

She stood out from under the shade cloth, encroaching further in on Angela’s space.

“Yes, how surprising.” Angela bristled, turning away and hugging herself.

“What brings you here?” Moira asked her, totally immune to the woman’s aura of cornered aggression.

“I could ask you the same! I didn’t think Rimini had enough vulnerable people in it for a glutton like you to feast on.”

Moira tipped her head back, a sharp laugh escaping her.

“Oh, my apologies, Dr. Ziegler. Where are my manners?”

“Welcome to my gallery.” She said, with a little curtain call to top it off.

Moira stood back and raised her flute in a toast to the building.

“I trust there are at least a few pieces in my collection that tickle your fancy.”

Angela would have been less shocked if Moira told her she was running a samoyed puppy farm. Her mouth hung open, and she wanted to run, but she had no idea where Brigitte and Reinhardt had gone to when she ambled up to the top floor.

“ _Your_ gallery?”

Moira nodded once, sipping from her flute.

Angela shook her head. The puppy farm still had plausibility.

“Where’s your laboratory? This entire building could well be a front. What are you really doing here?”

Moira scoffed and shook her head, her nose wrinkling as she smiled.

“You have such little faith in me, dear Mercy. I can assure you, this is just a gallery.”

“You’ve never given me any good reason to have faith in you before. Blame yourself for that.” Angela hit back. 

“Nobody in the world has _ever_ been entitled to your honesty, so you will _never_ be entitled to the benefit of my doubt.”

Moira sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, her shoulders slackening. Angela felt satisfied for having wiped the smarmy look off her face, but Moira opened her eyes again with another smile.

“Well, I might have lied by omission this time. It isn’t just part of my collection that lives here.” She spoke, lifting her glass to observe the light catching through - an overt display of nonchalance.

“It does have a few portfolio pieces as well.” 

Angela’s brow rose.

“...You, an artist?”

Moira bowed her head once, an affirmative gesture.

“Art was there for me when I left my previous life behind. You never knew it was a second love of mine after my research, did you?” 

The good doctor supposed she did not. If she’s being honest with herself, the revelation is a bit of a stinger.

But she’s not. So it definitely _doesn’t_ sting.

As for her ‘previous life’, well, Angela believed that if talk was cheap, O’Deorain’s mouth was a goddamned variety store discount bin.

Moira gestured to the door back into the gallery with her free hand.

“Would you care to let me show you which ones are mine?”

Angela refused to move. “I would not.”

“That’s a great shame.”

There were a few beats where nothing was said, but so long as O’Deorain was squirming as much as she was, Angela was just fine with letting it stretch out as long as possible.

“Far be it for me to deny your reasons for being uncomfortable, Dr. Ziegler, but surely you’d like to go inside, where it’s no longer just the two of us alone on a third floor balcony.” Moira finally said to her.

She did have a point, Angela had to admit.

She huffed and stormed past her, bashing the door inward with an open palm, hoping it would catch a thread on that incredibly expensive looking suit as Moira followed her inside.

The first thing she did was scan the area for any sign of Brigitte and Reinhardt. She doubted they’d have stayed long. They probably bailed on her after Brigitte ran out of paintings of cats and naked women to stare at.

“You’re welcome to go back out and take a dive from the balcony if it really pains you so much to be around me, Ziegler.” Moira quipped.

Angela’s head whipped around to her where she reclined on a stool against the wall, and levelled her an unimpressed scowl.

“Forgive me. Blackwatch humour.” Moira tried, which resulted in no change in Angela’s body language. 

“I would like to maintain that you are welcome to leave at any time you want. Nobody’s waiting to catch you unawares. If there’s no way I can convince you of my goodwill, all I ask is that you see one of my works before you leave.”

Angela really wanted to be rude and tell her to fuck off, but she was legitimately curious. She feared she was just gullible too. But if Moira were part of any elaborate plan to abduct or kill her, maybe it would already have happened by now. The balcony seemed like a much better place for it.

“Fine.” She huffed. “One work. Then you will let me leave, or suffer the consequences of holding me hostage.”

Of all reactions Angela had expected, to see Moira’s face light up was one she expected the least. Something very old and uncomfortably familiar pulsed in her chest.

“I’ll endeavour to make sure no lunatics bust into the gallery and hold you at gunpoint, doctor.” She said, rising to her feet again and making her way to the staircase. “Shall we?”

She had half a mind to tell her to stop with this ‘doctor’ nonsense and call her ‘Angela’, because she was making an effort to not think like a doctor while on holiday. But that might convey a degree of friendliness and goodwill that Angela wanted to avoid extending to somebody like Moira at all costs. 

Angela followed her down a floor, still keeping both eyes out in hopes that her deserted companions might show up again even after she gave them permission to buzz off.

She was so preoccupied in searching that she hadn’t noticed Moira stopped walking. Only when a long, thin arm stretched in front of her and barred her from moving did she stop with a jolt.

“Please don’t walk into my painting.” Moira lightly warned her.

Momentarily irate, Angela opened her mouth to say something strong on the topic of Moira _daring_ to touch her, but the words wouldn’t leave her when she realised she was staring right at the painting that had mesmerised her earlier on. The one she was so captivated by that she needed to go out and take a break so she could come back in and properly appreciate all the other works in the gallery.

She gazed upon it again for a few moments. She had already taken it in before, and this could be used to her advantage. Still… Moira O’Deorain painted this? Under a pseudonym, ‘Fina Malagoli’, apparently.

“What do you think?” Moira asked her.

Left one step behind, Angela made the mistake of turning and looking at her.

She looked collected, but still expectant, and just a little bit hopeful.

It twisted things inside Angela that she preferred to be left alone.

She hated to lie. This painting was beautiful. 

Her experiences with this woman had been… unfavourable. Standing next to her was a criminal who had committed countless medical and scientific atrocities. She should be in jail.

But Angela adored this painting.

“It’s fine.” She finally answered, and looked away.

Moira’s bottom lip pressed up for a moment, and she nodded as she pondered this answer. Angela had learnt not to read into the outward emotions of insincere people, but It looked very much like O’Deorain wasn’t prepared for that response.

“Thank you.” She eventually said. 

Angela considered her compliment to be more of an insult. But Moira still took it.

Her stomach and chest began to feel tight.

“We’re done here. I am leaving right now.” Angela stated.

“Ah-- But before you go,” Moira said quickly, reaching a slender hand towards her.

Angela looked down at it like it might burn her, and noticed a black card held between Moira’s index and middle fingers.

“Here. In case you would like to contact me.”

Moira kept her hand extended, unwavering.

“Or report me to the police. I won’t mind either way.” She added with a wry smile.

Angela yanked the card from her hand, fully intending on tossing it into the next bin she passed. She turned on her heel and left without another word, no words of appreciation, and no farewell for that wicked woman. 

She was nearing the stairs when she heard Moira call to her.

“Have a wonderful life.” She said, her voice gentle and low.

Relaxed. Song-like.

Ziegler almost tripped, but she kept walking, hoping it didn’t look too obvious.

It was an automatic response for her feet to take her down the next set of stairs, across the floor and back out the entrance to the building. She was not comfortable with stopping to think about anything until she sat alone in a little alcove in the street, catching her breath. 

Her heart pounded in her throat, her nose felt hot, and she could feel angry red welts forming on her cheeks.

Angela really didn’t want to get caught up in public like this. She took her phone out of the pocket of her dress, realising that Brigitte had been messaging her within the last five minutes. She had neglected to switch her phone off silent while she was alone, which was a pity. She could have avoided all this chaos if she remembered.

No sooner than she had sent a reply had Brigitte and Reinhardt rounded the corner, just in time to see her crumpled against the wall, catching her breath. 

Angela probably looked a lot worse than she felt. Brigitte and Reinhardt would give her enough of that god-awful ‘knights in shining armor’ schtick to last her an entire lifetime, the way they gasped and gathered around her flanks, fussing and checking her over.

“Are you alright?” Asked Reinhardt, taking her hand in one of his and steadying her shoulder with the other. “What on earth happened, Angela?”

Brigitte had a palm on the small of her back, and scooted in close to her.

“Oh no,” Brigitte said, “Do you have allergies?”

“Allergies--? What-- No! Goodness, stop making such a fuss!” Angela yelled.

That made them back off just a bit.

“I just had a bout of dizziness. Low blood pressure, you know.” She said, finally getting all her words in after they started to crowd her.

Reinhardt raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t we go and find a seat for you back in the gallery? There’s a cold water fountain in there—”

Angela cut him off. “Oh, no. My god, no. Definitely not.”

“... Alright. You wanna just… go back to the hotel?” Brigitte asked her.

“Please.” She replied.

  


* * *

  


Safe in her hotel room, Angela could finally come undone.

She looked in her wallet - where she had stuffed Moira’s card so Reinhardt wouldn’t see it. Not that it would have mattered… the thing had ‘Fina Malagoli’ on it, anyway.

“Oh, god.” Angela groaned, her fingers pressed to her temple. She was supposed to throw the thing away, not keep it and hide it from Reinhardt.

Memories flooded her mind as she stuffed it back in her wallet, again, instead of throwing it in the bin.

She remembered the late hours she would stay up working, where she could also use the time to figure out when O’Deorain left her facility in Blackwatch. Sometimes she used the information to figure out when to run over and hand her a coffee, which was surely the most obvious sign that Angela was slightly obsessed with her. It wasn’t commonplace for Overwatch’s most prized doctor and combat medic to be personally delivering coffee to you on a regular basis. 

Moira would look at her like she was some sort of strange gremlin creature, but she didn’t take it to be insulting simply because she knew Moira enjoyed things that were strange.

Being strange was fine, so long as Moira liked it.

All that mattered was that Moira accepted her offerings, and she did… for a while, at least. Usually, Angela would go into the facility herself to monitor Shimada’s progress and make small adjustments to the way his cybernetic body worked with the natural parts left of him. It gave her an excuse to stay back and look for Moira, whose activities were conveniently timed so that barely anybody used the facility at the same time as she did.

It was clandestine. It should have been suspicious, but to Angela, it was perfect. The moments Moira would sit and talk with her about their work, eagerly listening in on the aspects of Dr. Ziegler’s research that interested her… Angela told her so much that she ought not to have, even though she was walled off all the same. But she couldn’t help it when Moira scooted closer to her as she talked, watching her reverently as she spoke about the things she was most passionate about in life. 

Moira, holding onto each of her words, laughing tiredly with her at the end of a long day, full of anecdotes about Reyes’ clumsy recruit who still used a _revolver_ in the current age. Moira, who smiled at her each time she came to sit down next to her, latte in hand, and offered her nothing but undivided attention for the next few hours.

Mercy got all the attention in the world, she was not invisible. But she never truly felt seen until she sat down and let Moira’s odd eyes rake over her.

And then out of nowhere, she was not the woman Angela had grown so fond of. Just like that, she was a criminal on the run. Angela had never seen her since. All of the time she spent longing for reciprocation was thrown to the void, and all she had left was to assume Moira knew and didn’t care.

She was young and foolish.

Shame started to drown her mind the moment she realised that this feeling was probably heartbreak. After so much time, so many hours and days and years between the stupid girl she was and the older woman she is now, she had audacity to be _heartbroken_ over the idealistic fantasies she had about the most morally bankrupt pile of human trash she’d ever met.

She’d planned to go out tonight, but alcohol and misery made infamously terrible bedfellows. Angela thought she probably couldn’t get lower than this, but she didn’t want to find out if that was true in a building full of strangers.

Oh well.

She had booze and a massive TV in her bedroom. She would make do with those instead.


End file.
